Dead Days of Summer

by Carolyn Hart

  Billy turned, ignoring the shouts behind him. “The mayor said an arrest had occurred. What’s the deal? Is an arrest imminent?” “Are there any other suspects?” “What’s Darling’s story? Where’s he been?” “Was she married?” “Was she pregnant?” “What does ‘blunt trauma’ mean? Was she beaten?” “How about the weapon? Was it found? Any fingerprints?”

  The mayor was right behind Billy when the door closed. “I’ve been on the phone to the circuit solicitor. I told him what you had and he said that’s plenty for an arrest. He’ll be here in the morning. We can set up a ten o’clock news conference at City Hall.” Cosgrove smoothed back a thin strand of pale hair. His stare challenged Billy. “I’ll see you then.”

  Annie reached the parking lot of the Sea Side Inn, three blocks from the police station. She’d walked fast after calling Emma, arranging to meet her in the shadows at the back of the hotel parking lot. The lights of Emma’s Rolls pierced the gloom beneath the overhanging branches of the live oaks. Annie ran the last few steps, opened the door, slid into the passenger seat.

  A glad cry came from the back. “Annie, my sweet. Did you see our dear boy?”

  Annie felt lifted by her mother-in-law’s memorable, husky voice. It was almost as if a cloud of joy flowed toward Annie, surrounding her, banishing the pain of Max’s haggard face, the uncertainty in his eyes. Max was alive, oh glory be. Annie found herself speaking with energy. “He’s fine, but he doesn’t know what happened to him last night.” Quickly Annie shared the little she knew. “He’ll have the lawyer call us.”

  Laurel leaned forward, patted Annie’s shoulder. “Be of good cheer. We can accomplish what we must.”

  Food helped. Water helped even more. The memory of Annie’s face—the faith in her eyes, the comfort of her touch, the determination in her voice—helped most of all. Max jammed a hand through his tangled hair, started to shake his head impatiently, winced. Despite the water and two Advil, his head still ached. Instead he spoke gingerly. “I don’t remember anything after the volleyball game. I went to the beach to look for her brother. She thought he was hiding out here on the island, that maybe he’d got into trouble over drugs.”

  Handler Jones took off his horn-rim glasses. With them, he looked close to forty. Without, he might have been twenty-five. Lean and lanky in a summer seersucker suit, he had a shock of chestnut hair, bright blue eyes, and a cheerful expression. He didn’t look like one of the South’s most successful trial lawyers. He looked like a scoutmaster or a lifeguard or a long-distance runner. He had continued to smile despite Max’s halting, incomplete, uneven recollections. Now he tapped the glasses against the legal pad filled with quick, neat printing. “Here’s what we’ll do. First thing, we’ll demand a blood test. That will prove you were drugged. I’ll arrange for an expert to search your computer’s hard drive for that missing file. I’ll get an inquiry started tonight into the woman’s background.”

  Max felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted. Once that file was found, it would prove he’d been hired.

  The glasses slid back into place. “You can make a statement. I’ll announce to the press that you are cooperating fully, that you were engaged by a woman to search for a missing relative, that you did not know Vanessa Taylor and have no knowledge pertaining to her murder or to any events of the evening of Monday, August 16, moreover that you suffer from amnesia resulting from a drug administered to you without your knowledge. But”—for the first time he didn’t smile—“it’s obvious you are going to be arrested for her murder.”

  Billy Cameron’s eyes burned with fatigue. He picked up the Dr Pepper can, drank, wrinkled his nose when he realized the soda was tepid and flat. What was it, his fifth or sixth today? He had trouble remembering when Tuesday had started. He glanced at the wall clock. Just short of midnight. He’s sent everyone home, Mavis looking weary and forlorn, Lou Pirelli uncharacteristically somber, Hyla Harrison excited at her involvement in a cause célèbre. Now Billy was all alone in the station. Except for the prisoner, of course. Was Max asleep? He was fed and shaved and showered, dressed in an orange jail jumpsuit. He’d been afforded counsel, made a statement, signed it, been booked and charged with murder. Tomorrow morning Mayor Cosgrove would bustle out onto the front steps and announce the arrest to the waiting media.

  Billy looked at his desk. Folders were skewed across the surface. The nearest, a bright blue, held Max’s statement. Billy stared at the folder. He’d had no choice but to arrest Max. Billy leaned back in his chair, folded his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling. He didn’t need to refresh his memory of Max’s answers. And lack of answers.

  Max claimed a woman, not calling herself Vanessa Taylor, came to Confidential Commissions Monday afternoon, hired him to look for her missing brother. He denied knowing Vanessa Taylor and insisted he wasn’t involved romantically with her. “…this woman was a client. She walked in the door Monday afternoon and I’d never seen her before in my life.”

  Max had no memory of going to Dooley’s Mine. “…she talked about it. That’s where her brother was supposed to be…she had a snapshot of him, check her purse…playing volleyball…blue swimsuit…that’s why I went to Blackbeard Beach…”

  Max insisted he didn’t know where she’d died. When told of the cabin’s location, he maintained he had never seen it. “…never been to any fishing cabin on River Otter Road.”

  Max said he hadn’t touched his tire tool since he’d had a flat last spring. “…you can check with the Gas ’N’ Go. I brought a tire in early April.”

  Max swore he wasn’t the figure Annie glimpsed Monday night in Confidential Commissions. “That’s crazy. Why would I delete that file? Don’t you see, that proves somebody set me up.”

  Max described the cabin where he’d awakened. “…don’t know how I got there. You’ll find where I was sick. I figured it out. She must have drugged me at Dooley’s Mine. Something knocked me out. That explains why I don’t remember anything after going to the beach. When I made it to the bathroom, I was washing up and I smelled blood…’’

  Billy lifted his arms, stretched, trying to ease a cramp in his shoulders. He’d promised Mavis he’d settle on the cot in the break room as soon as possible. But not yet. Not quite yet.

  Billy drew the chair closer to the desk made for him by his stepson. Billy was as proud of the desk as if it had been specially ordered from a fine furniture store. He shifted the desk pad to protect his arm from the sticky varnish. The varnish hadn’t dried properly and the desk had an uneven cant from a short leg. Kevin had made the desk for him in a woodworking class at the Haven. Without Max, there wouldn’t have been enough money to open the pool this summer….

  Billy glanced at the slew of folders. He had to make sense of everything he’d discovered this afternoon as well as the information Lou and Mavis had gathered. But first, before time dulled his recollections, he wanted to record his visit to the home of Vanessa Taylor’s employer, wealthy Lillian Whitman Dodd.

  Billy remembered one of Frank Saulter’s dictums: When it’s murder, start at home. Vanessa Taylor may have died in a fishing shack, but that wasn’t where she began her last day. When he’d jotted down his observations, he realized he’d been bugged by Mrs. Dodd’s response. Sure, the news of Vanessa’s murder shocked her, but there was something more. He frowned, trying to evaluate Mrs. Dodd’s response. Had there been a glimmer of fear? Billy shook his head impatiently. Time enough to wonder about Mrs. Dodd and the household where Vanessa lived. Now he needed to face the facts as he’d found them, without favor or detriment to Max.

  Billy knew the mayor would dismiss this exercise as a waste of time, but after midnight Billy considered he was on his own time. He shifted folders, checked information, searched out disparate facts, made quick notes. When he was done, he studied the sheets:

  Evidence of Accused’s Guilt1.

  Observed with victim at bar, appeared on intimate terms with her. His demeanor suggested a disagreement or quarrel with victi
m.

  Victim last seen alive in company of accused. Victim’s fingerprints found on steering wheel of accused’s Jaguar. Victim’s car found in parking lot near marina shops, suggesting she and accused left area together.

  Accused’s Jaguar found in proximity to body. Tire tool found in trunk confirmed as murder weapon. Accused’s fingerprints(smudged) on tire tool.

  Accused’s bloodstained shirt found in cabin less than half mile from murder site. Attempt had been made to wash out bloodstains. Awaiting laboratory confirmation confirming stains from victim’s blood.

  Entry into accused’s place of business accomplished without break-in, suggesting use of keys. No computer file found to prove accused’s claim he was hired by victim.

  Preliminary report of victim’s family lists as survivor one sister. The contents of her purse did not include snapshots of a young man in blue trunks playing volleyball.

  Evidence of Accused’s Innocence

  No trace of accused’s fingerprints found at cabin where death occurred. Particular attention was paid to door panels, champagne bottle, table. Several surfaces did not reveal prints, indicating the area had been polished.

  Bloodhounds did not trace accused from car containing murder weapon to murder cabin or from murder cabin to cabin where accused apparently stayed on Monday night. Since the Jaguar was parked at the crime scene and the dogs found no trail indicating the accused walked to the second cabin, it appears the accused must have been transported in a second car. What car and who drove it?

  The victim’s fingerprints found only on driver’s door, driver’s seat, and steering wheel in accused’s Jaguar, which precludes her having been a passenger in the car and makes the location of her car irrelevant.

  Results of blood test indicate accused had imbibed gamma-hydroxybutyrate, known on the street as Liquid Ecstasy, Goop, Scoop, or Georgia Homeboy. In combination with alcohol, the drug can cause amnesia and incoherence. Accused claims he was administered the drug without his knowledge, did not take it voluntarily.

  Silver car left Dooley’s Mine shortly after the Jaguar departed.

  Island realtor Cynthia Darrough—

  Billy drew a line through number 6. As the circuit solicitor would emphasize, the realtor’s report concerning Max and the boarded-up Franklin house was hearsay and clearly irrelevant to the crime. But to Billy, her poignant recital was the last bit of information he needed to convince him that Max was not the unfaithful husband he’d been set up to appear.

  Billy studied the list. Number 5 might turn out to be the most important fact he’d learned. Frank Saulter always said, “Look for the anomaly.” Billy hadn’t known the word when he first heard it. He’d listened and nodded and later he’d gone to the library and looked up anomaly. The definition stuck. Abnormality. That’s what Frank meant. Look for something odd, something that doesn’t make sense, something not in the natural order of events. Monday night the Jag turned left on River Otter Road, heading toward a dead end. Seconds later a silver car also left the bar’s parking lot and it too turned left. If that wasn’t damned odd, Billy didn’t know what would be. Two cars turned toward a dead end within seconds of each other. Two drivers who didn’t know their way? Or one car following the other? Or two cars with a common destination, the fishing shack on the marsh? A second car—Billy frowned, shuffled through papers. Yeah. here it was. Ted Dooley said Vanessa came running after Max in the parking lot at Dooley’s Mine. That was another anomaly for sure. If they’d arrived in the same car, they would have walked together. Even if they’d been fighting and he’d walked on ahead of her—and what would be the sense of that?—they should have been within a few steps of each other. If Vanessa came hurrying across the lot to catch up with Max, maybe she came separately. Billy had the same quick surge of excitement he felt when a bass tugged on his line. He’d bet the station that Vanessa Taylor reached Dooley’s Mine in the silver car that later followed Max’s Jaguar onto River Otter Road.

  The cell phone in his pocket played its rollicking tune. Billy plucked it from his shirt pocket, looked at caller ID. He punched on. “Yeah.”

  “Honey, you have to get some sleep.” Mavis’s voice gentle.

  Funny how he felt better knowing she was at home and thinking of him. “Right. Pretty soon. You okay?”

  “Lily’s got an earache. I’ve been rocking her.” A slow drawn breath. “And watching the news without sound. Saw the mayor. He made a big deal about Max being in custody. The news brief ran under his picture and some pictures of Max being brought into the station: ‘Broward’s Rock Mayor Cosgrove said apprehension of society suspect exemplified the American ideal of equal justice.’”

  Billy grunted. His fingers closed on the empty Dr Pepper can, crushed it.

  “The mayor—” Mavis stopped.

  “Yeah?” Billy tossed the soda can into the wastebasket.

  “On his way out, he said you should be in his office at nine. The circuit solicitor is coming. He said there’d be plenty of time to get all the ducks in a row before the news conference.”

  Billy waited. He knew his wife, knew there was more that had to be said, something she didn’t want to say.

  Reluctantly, she spoke. “He said they’d get everything wrapped up in time for you to get off to that conference in Columbia. He said the circuit solicitor can handle everything from here on. He said it’s very fortunate for you that the murder is solved and your presence on the island isn’t required.”

  Billy looked at the wall calendar. The annual state law officer’s seminar in Columbia was set for Wednesday through Friday. He always looked forward to attending. If he were involved in a major investigation, he would cancel.

  “He said it was essential for you to attend, that he couldn’t recommend you to the council to replace Pete Garrett until you complete that advanced course in antiterrorism.”

  Billy gripped the phone. There was silence but between them ran that current of perfect understanding that a good marriage enjoys.

  Finally, gruffly, he spoke. “I got to think.”

  “I know. Do what you have to do. Love you.” The connection ended.

  It was nearing one in the morning when Billy walked down the hallway to the break room. He washed his face, settled on the cot in a curtained alcove. He stared into darkness. Tomorrow morning when he met with the mayor and the circuit solicitor, he could insist on investigating further or he could agree the case was solved and out of his hands and leave for Columbia. If he insisted on investigating further, the odds were good the mayor would put him on unpaid leave. That would effectively shut down the investigation.

  Either he played ball or he’d be out of the game. That was the black and white of it. But Frank Saulter had another dictum: Don’t show your hand.

  Frank played his cards close to his vest. Maybe Billy could do the same. Maybe he could play the high-stakes game of his life. In the morning, he’d agree the case was closed. He’d go to Columbia. It would be up to Mavis and Lou and Hyla to keep on looking. If the mayor found out the search was still on, Billy’s career would be finished, kaput, done, smashed.

  Billy stared into darkness.

  5

  Summer sunlight streamed through the ceiling-high windows of Emma Clyde’s garden room. In the blaze of sunshine, the boyish face of Handler Jones looked every one of its forty-six years. The glare revealed crow’s-feet edging sapphire blue eyes, highlighted streaks of silver in chestnut hair, emphasized blondish fuzz on unshaven cheeks. His blue seersucker suit, though expensive and well fitted, was wrinkled and creased.

  He stood in the center of the room. Horn-rim glasses in one hand, Jones looked at each of them in turn, Annie and Emma sharing the white sofa, Laurel perched on a sea blue ottoman, Henny with a pad and pencil at the Queen Anne desk. He drawled, “Ladies, forgive my disreputable appearance.” His words flowed thick as honey. “I worked late last night—”

  Annie knew that was true. She’d spoken with him on the phone for almost an hour
after he left Max at the jail. From Billy’s questions, he’d gleaned the facts of the prosecution’s case. From Annie, he learned about Max’s call just before five on Monday and her frightening encounter at Confidential Commissions that night. He’d listened, asked quick, perceptive questions, bid her good night with a cheerful assurance that Max was in good hands.

  “—getting materials together. Now here’s our situation—”

  Annie had looked him up in Martindale-Hubbell. Before they gathered at Emma’s for an early lunch and council of war, she knew Jones’s age, education (the Citadel, Vanderbilt law), firm (Jones and Associates), major clients, dramatic successes.

  “—the arraignment is set for two o’clock this afternoon at the courthouse in Beaufort. We’ll try to get him out on bail, but in a high-profile case such as this, it’s unlikely the judge will agree. He’s already been transferred to the county detention center.”

  Annie pushed away the image of Max being taken in handcuffs from the station. The last time they’d taken the ferry to the mainland, they’d been on their way to the waterfront in Savannah to watch the Fourth of July fireworks.

  “Even if we can’t get bail set”—Jones was cheerful—“there are definitely points in this case that I can use to argue if we get to trial.” He shot Emma Clyde an admiring glance. “Ms. Clyde did us a great service by hiring the bloodhounds, making that search. Our strongest support for the defense is the fact the hounds didn’t find any trace of Max between his car and the murder cabin. I’ll press the prosecution for proof he was in the cabin. If they can’t come up with fingerprints or any trace of his presence in the murder cabin, we’ll have another strong argument for the defense.”

  Annie remembered the down-at-heels cabin with its weathered wooden steps. Murder cabin. That’s how she would always think of it.

  “We have other support for Max’s story. My expert found the missing file on the hard drive of Max’s office computer. I’ve printed it out.”